Just one.
With a fingertip.
Then another.
And another.
Rhythmic touches—barely impacts at all—easing me toward the idea of them.
He was right.
There was no pain.
Only sensation.
A tiny jolt.
A flicker of curiosity in place of fear.
“Focus on your breathing,” Damien murmured, his tone a warm ribbon in the dark. “In…” A pause. “And out.”
I followed him, letting my lungs sync to the cadence he set.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
My pulse steadied. Some of the tension leaked away.
The taps changed—fingertips becoming full fingers, then a broader touch. The faint sound of each impact grew, gentle decibels stacking gently on one another.
Still no pain.
Not yet.
Just a hum beneath my skin.
A rising warmth.
A sense of being guided toward a ledge I wasn’t afraid to reach.
“Keep breathing,” he murmured, the rhythm of his taps strengthening, each touch landing with a little more intent.
I gasped when the first sting hit—the first tiny crack of sensation sharp enough to register as pain.
“In… and out,” he coaxed, voice a warm, steady current.
His free hand slid up my spine, a single fingernail tracing slowly along the centerline.
Each strike alternated sides, a deliberate pattern: left, right, left… a choreography designed to ease me deeper, not shock me out.
Sting.
Stroke.
